


Mad Blood Stirring

by provocative_envy



Series: Ice, Ice, Baby [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Casual Sex, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, Humor, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/pseuds/provocative_envy
Summary: It's not like they've been angrily hooking up on the sly since meeting at a Juniors skills camp in fucking Manitoba four years ago, except that's exactly what they've been doing.[ ALTERNATIVELY - Draco and Harry really need to talk about their feelings. ]





	

**Author's Note:**

> so so so so so so soso sorry for this
> 
> title from _romeo and juliet_ because what is dignity idk anymore
> 
> spiritual sequel to [wake up, get up, shut up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8958136)  
> 

* * *

 

Their second year in the league, Potter’s playoff beard is so fucking awful that Draco wants to _die_.

He doesn’t die, obviously, because he’s a baller professional athlete with multiple six-figure endorsement deals and Potter’s just, like, some irrelevant scrub with a Calder and an artfully shot photo of himself drinking _champagne_ out of the Cup literally _nailed to his living room wall_ and Jesus fucking _Christ_ is that not a dude worth dying for, patchy mountain man sideburns or not.

So.

Instead of dying, Draco has a classy ass straight razor and a small ceramic jar of sandalwood scented shaving cream delivered to Potter’s dumb Manhattan brownstone.

 _fuck u,_ Potter texts him later that day.

 _only if you put that thing on your face out of its misery,_ Draco returns, not a little smugly.

Potter doesn’t respond for an hour and a half, and when he does, it’s just with a cut-off, slightly blurry picture of himself in a pair of Rangers-blue boxer briefs. He’s curling his stomach in, the angle doing everything and then some to highlight the long, lean, post-season cut of his muscles, the bulk of his shoulders and the width of his chest, the mouthwatering trail of dark, wiry hair leading down to his underwear—

Draco sulkily jerks off in the shower before sending back a petulant grey ghost emoji.

 _gonna eat u out til u cry,_ Potter answers, and Draco shudders harder than he had after his actual orgasm. _not gonna shave first._

 _you’re dead to me_ , Draco tells him.

 _finally,_ is all Potter replies with.

Draco frowns.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like they’ve been angrily hooking up on the sly since meeting at a Juniors skills camp in fucking Manitoba four years ago, except that’s exactly what they’ve been doing.

 

* * *

 

It’s preseason, and Potter’s fucking Draco through a subpar queen-sized mattress at a sketchy airport Sheraton in Chicago.

“Your breakaways have always been garbage,” Draco hisses, biting down on the curve where Potter’s neck meets his shoulder. Potter’s impossibly sensitive there. His broken, gasping moans make Draco’s knees feel like he’s done nothing but run suicides for an hour. “My—my _grandmother_ could outskate you.”

“Yeah?” Potter retorts, squeezing Draco’s ass and rubbing a too-dry, too-rough, too-callused finger around the stretched-out rim of his hole. “The one who married her cousin?”

“Oh, fuck—fuck off, I’m gonna Ancestry.com you _so hard_ ,” Draco says, arching his spine and rolling his hips and forcibly reigning in the urge to fucking _beg_ Potter to touch his dick, holy _shit_. “ _So hard_.”

Potter snorts. “How hard, exactly?”

“Harder than you’re _fucking me_ ,” Draco snaps, which is a blatant and frankly pointless lie because Potter’s better at sex than he is at hockey and Potter’s _really fucking good at hockey_. Draco can still remember popping a super uncomfortable boner in a grody Canadian sports bar while watching Potter net his very first goal back when they’d both been idiot rookies spending more time in the sin bin than on the ice.

Now, though, Potter’s gritting his teeth like he thinks Draco’s actually being serious, reaching up to thumb at Draco’s nipples and hitching his forearm up under Draco’s back and yanking him forward a little bit, and—and— _oh_ —fuck, yeah, that’s his prostate. Being nailed. Repeatedly. With _precision_.

“You’re gonna—you’re gonna fucking _feel this_ tomorrow,” Potter says, voice low and gravelly and _deep_ , deep enough that Draco already feels it, feels it thrum out from Potter’s chest and vibrate right through his skin. “You’re gonna feel it, and you’re gonna—”

“I’m gonna what?” Draco pants, kissing a bruise onto the hinge of Potter’s jaw.

“You’re gonna think about me,” Potter says with that same obnoxious fucking confidence he’s had since Juniors. “Think about my cock, about how _good_ you’re taking it, fuck, gonna—gonna come—”

“Shit,” Draco breathes, heat beginning to spiral out of control in his lower abdomen, “me too, I’m—Potter—”

Their eyes meet, green on grey on _green,_ and Potter’s hand wraps itself around the head of Draco’s cock.

“Yeah,” Potter murmurs. “Just like that. C’mon.”

Draco comes.

 

* * *

 

Two months later, Draco’s boarding the team’s charter plane to New York, smirking down at his phone while he stows his carry-on in the overhead compartment.

 _can’t wait to humiliate you in front of all your loser fans tomorrow,_ he texts Potter as he’s settling into the empty seat next to McLaggen. _they’re going to burn your jerseys in the gift shop._

 _lmao its gonna be a shutout u guys hvnt won a game in 2 weeks,_ Potter immediately replies.

_keeping tabs on me, asshole?_

A couple of minutes pass without a response, but then: _i get nhl alerts._

 _liar liar liar liar,_ Draco sends back.

 _sry my team streams not as lame as urs,_ Potter says, _u still following womens tennis or nah._

“What the fuck do you look so happy about?” McLaggen grumbles, yawning into his fist. “Wood just passed out _homemade granola bars_ , I’m, like, _this close_ to wishing for the fucking apocalypse.”

 _w/e you want to put a dope ass ring on all of this don’t front,_ Draco types before stuffing his phone in his jacket pocket.

 

* * *

 

Draco had played on the same line as Potter during a rare multinational scrimmage at Worlds.

Seven minutes of missed passes and broken plays and an accidental assist to the _other team_ that had resulted in a wonky wrist shot glancing off the boards and skidding in horrific slow-motion right into an empty net. Potter had dropped his gloves and taken a three minute penalty, and Draco had spit out a mouthful of blood before tripping over his own skates, losing the puck to a girly fucking Swede with a man-bun whose heavily accented trash talk— _“You and boyfriend have fight? Trouble in bedroom?”_ —should have been objectively hilarious but was somehow just really depressingly on point.

Draco and Potter—they didn’t meld, or mesh, or whatever the fuck; they didn’t instinctively become mind-readers; they didn’t have that bone-deep physical awareness of each other out on the ice that they probably _should_ have, considering how much time they spent together naked.

They played ugly hockey.

Just.

Bad, _ugly_ hockey.

Draco hadn’t gone to college, but he was pretty fucking sure that was a metaphor for something. 

 

* * *

 

He’s at an airport newsstand in Denver when he sees it.

 **HOCKEY STAR CAUGHT IN EARLY MORNING WALK OF SHAME** , reads the headline on the Sunday edition of the _Post_.

There’s a grainy photo of Potter in his game-day suit—a rumpled pair of slacks and a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, skinny red tie hanging undone around his collar, mouth relaxed and hair an unruly mess and demeanor so visibly, emphatically _languid_ —fucked-out—that it’s like a still-frame from soft-core porn. Draco knows that look. Draco is usually _responsible_ for that look. Potter’s expression is pensive, a weak stream of sunlight glinting off the hardware of his glasses, but he’s staring down at his phone with an intensity that doesn’t quite match what’s going on in the rest of the image.

Draco suddenly feels vaguely nauseous.

 

* * *

 

All-Star Weekend is a catastrophic fucking disaster.

The year before, Potter had loitered like a juvenile delinquent in front of the bank of elevators near Draco’s hotel room, allegedly on the hunt for a vending machine that carried Funyuns, until Draco had dragged him inside to argue about faceoff percentages and Potter had whined his way into turning on _300_ a-fucking-gain and there had been sirloin cheeseburgers and travel-sized bottles of lube and super intense, incredibly messy sweatpants sex that Draco hadn’t particularly wanted to consider the ramifications of, not then and not now, because waking up to Potter’s mouth on his dick and knowing that in three or four hours he was going to have to go up against him in a stick-handling contest—well, he’d come down Potter’s throat, and then he’d laughed and laughed and laughed into a discarded Rangers shirt that had smelled like laundry detergent and Old Spice and sandalwood shaving cream and—

This year, Potter knocks on Draco’s door outright.

This year, Draco doesn’t bother answering.

This year, that train wreck of a fucking _300_ sequel is already blaring from the tinny flat-screen speakers, and one of Wood’s disgusting microwaveable bowls of prune quinoa or whatever is sitting on the desk by the window, and the niggling twinge of dread that Draco’s been diligently pretending isn’t there ever since he left Denver is, admittedly, really, _really_ fucking _there_.

 _go fuck yourself,_ Draco texts Potter, wishing desperately that smashing keys on a touch-screen was just _slightly_ more satisfying. _or fuck someone else. you’re probably not that picky._

The knocking stops.

 

* * *

 

There are only a few weeks left in the regular season when Potter nuts up and attempts to actually call Draco.

“Harry Potter,” Draco drawls, pausing his totally and completely satisfying solo game of NHL 17. “What the fuck do _you_ want?”

“Phone works, then,” Potter replies, uncharacteristically cagey.

“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you’ve been ignoring me for a month and a half?”

“Uh, yeah,” Draco says again, careful to keep his tone lofty with disdain. “We’ve been fucking without condoms for, like, _three years_ , Potter, that article I saw was some ‘ _et tu, Brutus?’_ shit.”

There’s several seconds of silence. “The article you—wait, what? Who’s Brutus?”

Draco huffs. “The article. In the _Post_.”

Potter hesitates, and then audibly swallows like he’s about to give himself a pep talk and ride into fucking battle. “I should have told you—”

“Nah,” Draco interjects. “You don’t owe me anything, Potter, that’s—that was the _point_ of all of this, wasn’t it? It was just kind of. You know. Unhygienic. Or whatever.”

Potter makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat. “What are you…Malfoy, what article did you _see_ , exactly?”

Draco purses his lips. “ _Hockey star caught in early morning walk of shame,_ ” he recites, furious all over again, because hysteria is finally starting to eclipse the embarrassment and the frustration and the rage that have kind of become second-nature to him over the past few weeks, and that’s—that’s some _bullshit,_ is what it is.

So.

Instead of waiting for Potter to reply or explain himself or get even weirder than he already is, Draco hangs up. Because he’s an _adult_. Who makes _adult decisions_. Like a fucking _boss_.

Potter doesn’t call back.

 

* * *

 

It’s pretty fucking annoying having to watch the _Canucks_ steal the last remaining playoffs spot.

“Fucking Flint and his fucking pansy-ass soft skull,” Draco mutters as he cleans out his locker. “ _Fuck_.”

“Hey,” McLaggen says, leveling a tired glare in Draco’s general direction. “Not cool, bro. Go get your dick wet, Jesus, you’ve been a fucking drag since January.”

“ _You_ go get your dick wet,” Draco snipes, which is a gratuitous fucking insult because McLaggen is _always_ getting his dick wet, that’s, like, his only marketable skill outside of goaltending. “I’m fine.”

McLaggen tosses a sweat-stiff practice jersey into his bag. “Sure,” he replies doubtfully. “That’s why you’ve been using a Rangers calendar as a dartboard.”

“Just July, actually,” Draco retorts, like that makes anything about his entire fucking life any less pathetic. “Mr. July’s the real asshole here, okay?”

“Mr. July,” McLaggen repeats, looking pained. “You’re calling their future hall-of-famer _star center—_ ”

“Anyway,” Draco practically yells, “ _fuck_ the Rangers, and _fuck_ the Canucks, and where the _fuck’s_ my fucking tape, man?”

McLaggen wordlessly pelts him with a jockstrap.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks into the off-season, Draco’s invited to brunch at Flint and Wood’s epically gay little hockey love nest in the suburbs.

He’s not really sure why. Flint literally hates him, and Wood only makes the barest pretense of tolerating Draco because he’d choke on his crazy Canadian captain guilt if he didn’t.

“Seriously?” Draco grimaces, picking up an old orange juice stained copy of the _Post_ that’s tucked behind the toaster in the kitchen. He reflexively checks the date. “This is from _January_ , you fucking heathens, don’t you have a cleaning service?”

Wood glances up from where he’s arranging three pieces of bacon into a power play. His right wing is burnt on one end. “Oh,” he replies blankly. “Yeah, no, that’s a…memento, I guess? Potter billeted with me his last year of Juniors. That whole article’s about that.”

A needling pang of unease hits Draco like an uppercut to the chin. “What…what’s it say?”

Wood shrugs. “The usual. Talked a lot about his godfather, learning to skate, all of that—oh, and some skills camp he went to in Manitoba? That, uh, changed him for the better, I think is what he said? Made him want to work harder, be better…” Wood’s expression turns alarmingly dreamy. “Everyone has one of those moments, you know, those—those _hockey_ moments, where it all just…clicks. Where you really _realize_ , you know, that this is _it_ , this is what you want to _do_ , forever—”

Draco lets Wood go on about that for almost thirty whole minutes. It feels a little like torture and a lot like penance and there’s a microscopically tiny glimmer of _hope_ flickering to life in the vague vicinity of Draco’s chest—region—whatever—because _he’d gotten it all wrong_. Probably.

 _you’re the fucking worst,_ he texts Potter. It’s been two months. He wants to punch Potter, and he wants to punch Wood, and he wants to punch himself. _i can’t believe i’m fucking in love with you._

 

* * *

 

There are only economy seats left on the first flight Draco can find out to New York.

“Window, please,” he tells the guy behind the ticketing counter, because two and a half hours of cheap apple juice and zero leg room is enough of a fucking sacrifice. He’s not _martyring_ himself for this.

The guy winces. “Nah, man. Aisle only.”

Draco clenches his jaw as he slides over his credit card, but then his phone vibrates in his jacket pocket and he—

A ghost emoji.

Potter’s texted him a _ghost emoji_.

 _fuck you that’s my thing_ , Draco types, stomach swooping, and it’s not at all unlike the first time Potter had sent him a picture of his dick, long and hard and somehow still really, really mouthwatering despite the gross fluorescent lighting and the uncapped tube of toothpaste lurking in the foreground.

Draco’s phone vibrates again. This time, there are _two_ ghost emojis.

 _you’re kind of my thing too_ , Draco replies, helplessly fond.

 

* * *

 

Potter’s basically fucking _naked_ when he answers the door at his dumb Manhattan brownstone.

“You’re a moron,” he snaps, scratching at his bare torso. He doesn’t even have the decency to _greet_ Draco. Or pretend to be surprised by his arrival. Dick. “I was—that picture was taken in _December_ , when you were _here_ , I was—I was leaving _your_ hotel, I haven’t slept with anyone _but_ you since…since… _you know_.”

Draco blinks. “Wait, really?”

Potter’s mouth opens, and then closes, and then opens again. “Have _you_ been fucking other people?” he demands.

Draco rears back, appalled and offended and _aghast._ “Of fucking course not.”

Potter jabs a finger in the middle of Draco’s chest. “Well, neither have I.”

Draco sniffs. “Good.”

Potter glares. “Don’t—stop _looking_ like that.”

“Like what?”

“Smug. Don’t be smug. You almost fucked everything up.”

Draco smirks. “ _Almost_.”

Potter’s eyes narrow, even as his lips twitch upwards, flatten into an unimpressed line, and then twitch back down—and then he’s pulling his phone out from the pocket of his shorts, making a big fucking deal about typing in his password and scrolling through his messages and—

“What’s this?” he drawls in an overloud monotone. “From _Draco Malfoy,_ today, at 11:14 in the morning, and I quote _,_ _‘I can’t believe I’m in love with—_ ’”

“So!” Draco interrupts, lifting his chin to hide the electric pink heat of his blush. “I haven’t gotten to suck your dick in, like, two months. Withdrawals are a thing. I saw it on _Intervention_.”

Potter stares at him for a while, features spasming with something like incredulously affectionate disgust. “I’m _attracted_ to you right now,” he mumbles. “What the _fuck_.”

“Fuck you,” Draco automatically replies, fighting off a truly stupid fucking grin. “I’m trying to offer you an apology blowjob.”

Potter chokes out a laugh. “You just told me you were having _withdrawals_ you missed my dick so much, I don’t really think it counts as an apology if you’re fucking gagging for it.”

Draco’s mouth floods with saliva, and his throat tightens and his gut _clenches_ and he doesn’t know what the fuck his face is doing right now but it must be advertising at least a little of his seriously incomprehensible desire to get on with the fucking makeup sex because Potter’s gaze is going dark and focused like it does when he’s about to score and Draco—Draco’s been mortifyingly fucking easy for Potter’s smile and Potter’s hockey and Potter’s _everything_ for fucking _years_. It’s the best kind of head rush to realize he hasn’t been alone in that.

“Yeah,” Draco murmurs, tongue darting out to tap once, and then twice, and then go still against his bottom lip. “Fucking gagging for it.”

Potter grabs the front of Draco’s shirt, hauling him in for a kiss that’s messy and filthy and definitely going to leave a mark—

“Same,” Potter eventually whispers into his neck. “Same.”

 

* * *

 

The day before the trade deadline, Potter calls.

“Hey, asshole.”

“You’re supposed to be groveling,” Draco says, squinting into his refrigerator. There’s an eggplant in the vegetable crisper. What the fuck do people do with eggplant? “We had a deal. You don’t love me enough.”

“Yeah, sure,” Potter agrees, aggravatingly casual. “What are you doing?”

Draco scowls at the eggplant. “Nothing,” he says darkly.

“Miss me?”

“No,” Draco lies. “In fact, I’m breaking up with you.”

Potter snorts. “No, you’re not.”

“Uh, yeah, I totally am,” Draco argues, slamming his refrigerator door shut. Fuck the eggplant. It’s the motherfucking offseason. He can order _pizza_. “I’m just not gonna do it over the phone because that’s, like, the douchiest move ever. So. There.”

“Since when do you give a shit about being a douche?” Potter sounds genuinely curious.

Draco hangs up.

 _im being traded_ , Potter texts him less than twenty seconds later.

Draco’s eyebrows fly up. _did the entire front office over there suffer a collective and completely debilitating brain injury??? or wait no was it the playoff beard did it turn off the fans_

 _r u rly gonna make me say it_ , is all Potter responds with.

 _you’re still the worst,_ Draco texts back, _even if you did request a trade here like a fucking stalker because you were tired of me beating you at skype sex._

Five minutes go by, and then Potter sends a picture of his half-hard cock, fist loose around the base of it, the middle finger of his other hand clearly visible next to the stupid bottle of organic all-natural lube on the bedspread.

 _baby don’t be like that,_ Draco can’t help replying, even as his heart hammers and his pulse races and something awful and warm and exhilarating begins to creep into his lungs. _its so sexy when we effectively communicate_.

His phone rings.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> [come join me in hell](http://www.provocative-envy.tumblr.com)


End file.
